


Do You Trust Me

by Jaybeefoxy



Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Fluff, Flufftober, Flufftober prompts 2020, M/M, Mycroft comes to the rescue, Mystrade fluff, Pre-Relationship, You do not have permission to post to another site., You do not have permission to translate this work, a little bit of Mystrade Drama, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27167212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: Greg is in a tight spot on a case, and the cavalry arrive.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950532
Comments: 2
Kudos: 112





	Do You Trust Me

**Author's Note:**

> Part 22 of Flufftober Prompts 2020. This one is slightly longer

Rain. Incessant, vision-obscuring, driving rain. It was not the night to get into difficulties on a case. Greg hunkered down beside a dumpster and tried to make himself even more invisible by shuffling back into the shadows. He had lost Sherlock and John, or rather, they had lost him. They were in an unfamiliar part of the city; a maze of back alleyways, brick walls and yards by the docklands. The pursuit had gone on forever, and Greg had fast realised he wasn't as fit as he'd thought. They had doubled back on themselves so much, and Greg was so turned around he wasn't sure where he was. Then the rain had started, and one turn too many, and they had become separated. So, he stopped, sought out a hiding place and waited, concealed by rain and shadows. He tried texting both men but to no avail. He didn’t dare call, he had no wish to raise his voice and he doubted he would be heard over the rain if he didn’t. 

Suddenly, over the noise of the pounding rain, footsteps sounded on the cobbles nearby, two sets by the noise, and Greg almost stepped out with Sherlock's name on his lips, but some indefinable thing held him back. It might have been instinct, intuition, but whatever it was probably saved him. 

"We lost 'em," came a voice that was distinctly neither Sherlock nor John, and sounded like it came from the other side of the dumpster. Whoever it was he was breathing hard, as though he’d been running. 

"Bleedin' Hell," came the other one, equally winded. "Fuckin' mental, those two. Hatman and Robin. How the Fuck did they know about us?” 

Greg realised he could hardly hear the two men over the growing storm. He risked moving a little closer, behind the dumpster. One foot skidded and he nearly revealed himselft but he caught himself on the wall and steadied. Neither man noticed.

“Someone squealed, I reckon,” one was saying. 

"Yeah, well, stop prattlin' and come on. We gotta get to the ferry, asap. Gotta get to Calais before Dougal does or there'll be all hell on. We need to find Lazy and Mick. You go that way, I'll go this. Keep an eye on the time. Don't spend more than ten, and watch out for those two prats. They ‘ad a copper wiv 'em, so take care. You’ve got a gun, but only use it if you have to. We'll meet back at the dockside in ten, wiv or wivout the others." There was a scuffle of feet moving off, the footsteps died, then silence. Greg's heart rate had ramped so high, he thought it could be heard over the rain. 

He didn't dare move. He had no idea if he'd walk straight into whoever they were, and from that exchange it sounded as though they were armed. So he pulled out his phone and sent another text to John. There was, predictably, no reply. So he sent one to the only other person who might be at liberty to help. Mycroft. 

**Emergency. Don't phone. Can’t speak. Armed hostiles in area. Please help?**

Seconds later, a reply came through. 

_**Will rendezvous your location in 15. Keep your phone on. Tracking GPS. Are you safe where you are?** _

**Debatable. Chasing suspects. Hvy rain, low viz. Lost JW and SH. Current location unkwn. In an alley, docklands. Could be dangerous.**

**_Sit tight. Do not move unless compromised. Understood?_ **

**Yes.**

Greg huddled in the dark, listening hard, unable to hear much beyond the rising wind and the storm that now crashed thunder above him. Fifteen minutes was a long time to wait, but when he saw headlights at the end of the alley, relief swept through him. 

Footsteps sounded again, but Greg hung back, wary.

"Inspector?"

"Mycroft." Greg stood up and stepped out from between the bins, aware how bedraggled he must look. Mycroft was immaculate as always despite the late hour, dark overcoat over a dark pinstripe, standing under a sturdy umbrella. He was also armed, and flanked by six armed men in combat gear. 

"Hurry, the car is waiting. I understand from my brother that they are both now safe. However, it seems they lost the trail."

"Good job I didn't. Both suspects are heading for the ferry to Calais tonight. They're meeting someone called Dougal. Rather, they said they want to be there before him. They were still hunting their two mates. Said they'd meet back at the docks after ten minutes, which would be about five minutes ago, if they stuck to their arrangement. Didn't dare leave in case I walked right into them."

"So they'll only just be heading to the ferry. Excellent," Mycroft said, seemingly almost proud. "Well observed. My brother will no doubt be jealous of that nugget."

"Pure chance," Greg admitted. "They stopped right by me, I could just about hear them discussing what to do. Just moved a bit closer so I could hear, and they were discussing using their guns if they had to."

“So they’re definitely armed.” Mycroft was hurrying him to the car as they spoke, ushering him into the warm interior. He paused to bark an order to the men he was with, telling them to make a thorough sweep of the area. As soon as the doors closed, they were driving off into the night, doors locked on the world. 

Greg was safe. He exhaled gustily, relief coursing through him. "Thank you, Mycroft. I am _so_ sorry I involved you…" 

The man looked up from his phone, eyes serious. “Nonsense,” he said, hitting _send. “_ This job was partly my responsibility, and now my people know what you just told me. They'll watch for the suspects at the ferry terminal, tail them to Calais, most likely have them apprehended by the Sûreté. You can relax, Inspector, your job is done."

"Could you drop me at my place, if it's not too much trouble…"

**"Do you trust me, Inspector?"**

"Eh?"

"Allow me to take you home, to mine. I can have takeaway waiting for us, whatever you wish. I have a hot shower, a comfortable bed, a change of clothes…"

"I...erm...I wouldn't want to be any trouble."

"Please, Inspector... _Greg_. It would be absolutely no trouble. I insist. Sitting in wet clothing is positively dreadful. I can attest to it. Return with me and we shall remedy that post haste."

 _Was Mycroft actually looking hopeful?_ Greg tried to ignore how surreal it felt and decided to run with it. “Okay, thanks, but I doubt you have anything that’ll fit me.”

“I use the same service available to all agents who need clothing and equipment and services at any time of day or night. If you give me your measurements, new garments can be delivered as soon as humanly possible.”

“Oh…’k...that’s useful.” 

“The same service will allow your clothing to be dry cleaned and delivered back by the morning. It isn’t a problem, honestly.”

Greg smiled. “Okay then, take me home, Jeeves.”

Mycroft's townhouse bristled with security and also, oddly, a good deal of charm. Once you got past the barrage of cctv, the retinal scans, the fingerprint recognition, the 8 digit alarm code and a good old fashioned lock, the place looked...cosy, really. Old, and well lived in, all stained-glass mullioned windows and oak panelling, parquet floors, and comfortable furniture. Mycroft showed him to a spare bedroom. 

“The ensuite is through here,” he said, opening a door onto a somewhat palatial bathroom. It was bigger than his own bathroom. “Towels are on the bed, and there are new bath products in the bathroom. Please use anything you wish.” 

“Thanks. This looks very comfortable.”

“If you place your own clothing on the chair, I’ll have it laundered. Look at this as a protracted stay in an exclusive hotel.” 

“Protracted?”

“As long as you wish. I have of course made sure you are not to be expected into work tomorrow. You need to rest.”

“Do I?”

“I would recommend it.”

“Then I shall take your recommendation.”

“Good. Dinner will be ready when you are.” Mycroft vacated the room and closed the door gently, leaving Greg to his own devices. 

Mycroft was speechless when Greg arrived downstairs. He had found the new robe and sleepwear Mycroft had left on the bed for him, and his feet were bare. They quite drew Mycroft’s attention. The man looked...comfortable, and delectable. His hair was sticking up at all angles and he had a towel around his shoulders. 

“Thanks for this, Mycroft. That shower is amazing.” 

“I make sure the water pressure is as good as it can be. I have a loathing for weak showers.”

“Yeah, my flat isn’t the greatest for that.”

“Dinner is here. I hope you don’t mind, I chose Thai. There is a very good Thai restaurant close by and I do adore their Pad Thai.”

“Is there enough for two?”

“Certainly, alongside other things. Green curry, noodles…”

“Great.”

The two men sat around the kitchen island, cartons between them, shovelling food on their plates companionably. Mycroft marvelled. That this man was obviously comfortable and relaxed in his presence was nothing short of a miracle, in Mycroft’s opinion. Nobody was ever this relaxed around him.

“Mycroft?”

“Mhm?” Mycroft hummed around a mouthful of noodles.

“When you asked me if I trusted you? What did you mean exactly? I mean, why should I not?”

“Invited to a strange house, by a stranger, on a whim, with the offer of food and lodging...Personally I would be wary of such an offer. You trust that I won't extract a favour at some point in the furute, or request something from you right now.”

“But you’re not a stranger, and I dare say , out of everyone I can think of, I don't mind owing you a favour..”

“We hardly know each other.”

“Okay, so I don’t know what your favourite colour is, but...I know you, Mycroft. I know that you care about your brother, so you are capable of caring, and deeply. I know you hate the rain, and you are very careful not to get cold, and you hate musical theatre. You smoke, although you try to quit. You smoke low tar when you absolutely cannot resist any more. So...that tells me your discipline is tested quite frequently. Doesn’t mean you are weak. Where you are concerned, I think it shows you are in a high stress occupation. You’re not at home all that often, the kitchen isn’t stocked very well. You buy in rather than cook, probably because you don’t have the time…”

Mycroft blinked. It wasn’t often that someone surprised him. “I...Inspector...I am...impressed.”

“Seriously? That wasn’t magic, it was…”

“Deduction.”

“A good memory. I just retain things people reveal, that’s all.”

“You extrapolated data, unless I am very much mistaken. Therefore you did use deductive skills.”

“Well, okay, just a bit. I guessed that the number of takeaway leaflets on your fridge means you use them quite often, which tells me you don’t cook, and you haven’t the time.”

“Very good.”

“Sherlock let slip you hated taking your parents to Les Mis that time. Who doesn’t like Les Mis? Therefore, I’m guessing you’re not a fan of musical theatre in general. Admittedly a bit of a leap, but I’m not far wrong, I’ll bet. Your cigarettes, well, you’ve shared them with me a time or two. Can’t help but know what you smoke.” 

“How do you deduce that I am in a high-stress occupation?”

“You’re not some Civil Service bod, Mycroft. You wouldn’t be able to arrange the things you do without backing. Access to services, chats in the palace...Yes, John did tell me that one.” 

He watched Mycroft smile. “I find myself very impressed, Gregory. I honestly don’t know what to say.”

 _The great Mycroft Holmes, speechless?_ Life was taking a surreal turn and no mistake. “Don’t say anything, Mycroft…” Greg put down his fork, hoping he hadn’t misread the situation. He got up, and moved into Mycroft’s personal space. Mycroft watched him carefully. Greg moved closer, as though approaching a nervous horse. Mycroft tipped his head up to look at him and Greg saw the man’s pupils dilate as he drew nearer. _Not misinterpreting things then._ Mycroft was definitely interested. Greg bent close, lips brushing gently across Mycroft’s mouth. There was a small gasp, a surprised intake of breath. Greg drew back and fixed his eyes on those gorgeous grey blue orbs. 

“Tell me, Mycroft,” he said gently. **“Do you trust me?”**


End file.
